Ark of Fire

CHAPTER 31

I will take revenge on my hateful enemies. I will sharpen my sword and let it flash like lightning.

Being a military man, Stan MacFarlane knew that another battle loomed on the horizon. Yet another chance to vanquish the enemy.

A lesson well learned in the trenches of Panama, Bosnia, Operation Desert Storm.

And, of course, Beirut.

Some said that was where he found religion. He preferred to think that was where his relationship with the Almighty began.

He still had vivid nightmares of that deadly October day when two hundred and forty-one Marines were taken out by a fanatical suicide bomber driving a water truck packed with explosives.

. . . the sickening stench of sulfur and burned flesh . . . a bellowing cacophony of pain and outrage . . . the frenzied rush to rescue the injured . . . the grievous task of finding the dead.

Amazingly, he’d survived the blast; his bunkmate not so lucky.

In retrospect, able to see with a survivor’s clarity, he knew the attack had been the first sign that the End Times were near.

His wife, the treacherous Helen, left him within a year of his conversion, claiming spousal abuse. In the nine years of their marriage, he’d never laid a hand on the woman—although he’d been tempted to wring her loose-skinned neck with his bare hands during the divorce proceedings.

The judge, a pussy-whipped left-wing liberal, had given Helen custody of their son, Custis; Stan was allowed to see his son only on the weekends. Afraid Custis would turn into a mama’s boy, he’d made sure his son joined ROTC while still in high school. Pulling a few strings, he’d been able to secure Custis a berth at Annapolis. Helen claimed that he’d bullied Custis into joining the Marine Corps, but he knew he’d done right by his son; the Corps made a man of Custis.

Who or what turned him into a weak-kneed coward was to this day a deep, dark mystery.

The official account claimed that after one deployment to Afghanistan and two to Iraq, Custis suffered from PTSD. Stan knew it wasn’t post-traumatic stress disorder that caused his son to put the barrel of a loaded M16 rifle into his mouth. Stan knew that it was the barbarous infidels of Babylon who caused his only son to heed Satan’s siren call. Men of God had a duty to battle the godless among them. Custis shirked his duty.

And would burn in the pits of hell because of it.

Soon after his son’s death, he founded the Warriors of God, convinced that it was his duty to lead the army of the righteous, akin to King David leading the Israelite army as they conquered the Jebusites and Philistines. Or Godfrey of Bouillon leading the crusaders as they battled Muslim infidels in the streets of Jerusalem. And, of course, there was his personal hero, Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson, a deeply religious military man who refused to fight on Sunday and who led his men in prayer before each battle.

Today, despite his fervent prayers, the battle had yet to be won.

Part of his contingency plan had been to send in a sniper. In case the old man lost his nerve. No need to worry about the scion of one of America’s great industrial families being gunned down in the middle of the National Zoo. The police would jump to the erroneous conclusion that a copycat killer, replicating the sniping spree that had gripped the nation’s capital during the autumn of ’02, was on the loose.

No doubt the funeral eulogies would wax poetic about Eliot Hopkins’s generosity and great philanthropic spirit, making no mention of the many art thefts that had padded his museum collection.

The tributes would also not mention Eliot Hopkins’s secret passion, the Ark of the Covenant.

Because of Stan’s thorough planning, the biblical scholars and archaeology watchdogs would continue to lightly snore, unaware of a trespass.

When all the pieces were in place, only then would the world know of his divinely inspired mission. Right now, the world was on his timetable. It was early yet. Too early to reveal God’s great plan. Although if the unbelievers had but eyes to see, they, too, would know that current global events had become an urgent call to arms from the Great Almighty.

Anxious about the upcoming mission, he hit the Intercom button on the phone console. “Any word on the flight plan?”

“I’ve just received the official approval, sir. You’re wings up at thirteen hundred hours.”

“Excellent,” Stan said to his chief of staff before disconnecting.

Despite the fact that English food rivaled mess tent slop, he looked forward to greeting the new day in London. The Miller woman had set the schedule back a full twenty-four hours, and though he was frustrated by the snafu, he felt curiously uplifted, ready, willing, and able for the task he was about to undertake. Besides, in the larger scheme of things, Edie Miller and her consort were insignificant. Minor players in a drama penned by the Almighty twenty-six centuries ago.

He glanced at his watch. He had enough time to post his daily blog entry.

Seating himself at the desk, he used his two index fingers to type the opening Bible passage, a favorite from Psalm 11.

He will send fiery coals and flaming sulfur down on the wicked . . .